UNBROKEN PROMISE

~88~ Apology

The house was still at night. Oma tiptoed into the master bedroom, the lamp in her hand casting a golden glow against the walls. Logan lay there beneath the quilt, bare-chested, the flush of fever still high on his cheeks. His breathing was slower now, steadier than earlier, but his strength hadn’t yet returned.

She hesitated at the edge of the bed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thought I’d come keep you company,” she teased gently, voice low.

Logan chuckled, the sound hoarse but warm. “Now I thought you were worried ‘bout catchin’ what I got,” he drawled, his lips curling.

Oma tilted her head and gave him a playful look. “I was joking.”

“Well,” he said, shifting slightly, his arm resting across his stomach. “Much as I’d like nothin’ better than to have ya close, you ain’t sleepin’ in here, sweetheart. Go on now, use the spare room. Last thing I want’s you fallin’ sick.”

Her brow furrowed with quiet protest. “But I want to be close to you,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost uncertain. “I'm worried.”

“Ain’t about wantin’ ya close, ‘cause Lord knows I do. It’s about keepin’ you well.”

She nodded slowly, lips pressing together. “Alright then.” With a long glance at him, she turned and left the room.

========

By morning, the fever had worsened again.

Logan was flushed, his skin hot to the touch, and his breathing had grown heavier. When Mama Becca came by, she checked his temperature, his eyes, and the sound of his chest.

She brewed a hot toddy from her own blend—whiskey, honey, lemon, a slice of ginger, and a pinch of herbs Oma had gathered. She fed it to Logan slow, coaxing every sip past his parched lips. Oma sat at his side, a cool cloth in hand, wiping sweat from his brow as he dozed restlessly.

The second day passed in a haze of coughing and sweat. Logan slept most of the day, only waking when Oma helped him sip tea or dabbed at his face with a cool cloth. By the third day, the fever had broken, though his body still ached and his appetite hadn’t returned.

On the fourth, he managed to sit up on his own. The flush in his cheeks had faded to a healthy pink. His voice, though still raspy, had some strength in it, and Mama Becca declared he’d be just fine with plenty of rest and good food to rebuild his strength.

By the fifth morning, the sun streamed gently through curtains. Oma stood by the counter in the kitchen. She was humming quietly, lost in the rhythm of cooking, when a pair of arms slid around her waist from behind.

She let out a soft gasp but immediately relaxed into the familiar touch. Logan.

He was warm against her, bare-chested, wearing nothing but his long johns. She could feel the solid muscle of him pressed to her back, the strength returning to his body. His lips brushed her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with a smile.

“I’m better,” he murmured against her skin. “And I missed ya.”

She turned in his arms, her hands resting lightly on his chest, her eyes sweeping over his face—clearer now, the fever gone. “You sure?” she asked gently.

He nodded. “Reckon I am. And I just wanted to tell you… thank you. For sittin’ with me. Watchin’ over me.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her with ease, setting her down on the edge of the kitchen counter. She gasped softly, startled, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as her hands flew to his shoulders.